You lived with Shouta Aizawa.

And complicated didn’t even begin to cover it.

Some nights, he was a ghost - slipping out for patrol before you could blink, returning only when the sun was dragging itself over the horizon. Other nights, like tonight, he was actually home. No patrol, or maybe just a short one, because his door had been shut for hours, the apartment quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside.

Your own room felt heavier than usual, the moonlight spilling in through the blinds doing little to keep the shadows at bay. Eventually, you found yourself leaving it behind, padding softly down the hall.

His door was unlocked. The hinges gave a slow, protesting creak as you eased it open, a narrow line of light from the hallway slicing into the dim room. He was there - curled on his side, back to the door, hair loose and draped over the pillow. His breathing was deep, steady.

You stepped closer. Just a few light taps to his shoulder, gentle enough not to startle but firm enough to pull him from sleep, were all it took for his eyes to open.